Postcards
by SqLib
Summary: Pre and Post Break
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"I know what you want to do," she said quietly bending over him to inject his daily dose of insulin. Her fingers brushed his skin. He tried to remain impassive.

"And what's that?" he asked with a smirk. She leaned in closer to where her lips were almost touching his ear.

"Break out." Michael froze.

"Are we finished here?"

"You're going to get yourself killed." His eyes flashed and suddenly she understood. "But then again, you probably don't care about that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. And I know why you're lying, but Michael they'll kill you." He looked into her eyes and she caught her breath, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of information that passed between them. He nodded as if he'd made a decision.

"Are you going to tell?" he asked quietly.

"No."

It was two months before she got the postcard. Two months of waiting and wondering and then, there it was. It was a bit frayed at the edges with a picture of a small overturned boat and handwriting as familiar and mesmerizing as it had been on that tiny scrap of paper he'd shoved into her hand. _I love you._ The postcard read simply, "Wish you were here. Hugs and Kisses from Baja! Your Amiga. P.S. Beers are 25 cents at happy hour." Even the girly accents to it couldn't disguise its true meaning, that voice whispering to her as she drowned in a color changing pool. Every voice in her head was telling her not to do it, not to risk everything she'd worked for on an escaped convict. But her head didn't pack her bag, didn't buy her plane ticket, didn't take off her shoes as she walked down a beach in the late afternoon sun.

It was almost dark when a hand pulled at the bottom of her shirt and she looked down to see a little boy with big eyes and an even larger grin.

"Come with me," he said. She followed him up past a row of houses and to the beach in front of a bar with a large open terrace. The sun was setting, a thin slice of orange over an already darkening abyss. "Wait here." She stood still. The little boy disappeared into the throbbing mass at the bar. The sun disappeared into a motionless sea. She heard his voice.

"Hey wait a minute kid. Where are you taking me? Come on man te---." He stopped short. "Sara?"

"Hey Michael." And then she realized they'd never even kissed. They'd had hundreds of tiny moments and yet she barely knew him. He looked amazing, tan and relaxed in way she had never dreamed of before. The look on his face was indescribable; some mix of surprise, concern and pure joy.

"Hey." He took her hand and pulled her to him as the little boy disappeared once more. He pulled her to him and kissed her with the only real hunger he'd ever had. "I see you got my postcard."


	2. Chapter 2

His hands are broken, the long tapered fingers bruised. The blue ink of his tattoo leaks on to the floor, turning purple as it mixes with his blood. In her dreams he's always dead. She sees his long arms, his broad shoulders, his hands, but never his eyes. Something roars in the background and the world goes dark. She wakes up in a strange bed to the sound of the waves crashing on a nearby beach. In the first moments of sunlight the room looks different, softer somehow, than it did the night before when sharp shadows jutted into her path. She sees Michael's outstretched hand off of the sofa and creeps over silently. In sleep the lines of his face have softened and his lips pout slightly like a little boy's, her hand moves to touch him, but she stops herself and heads for the kitchen instead.

In his dreams she's always running away and he wakes up to the sound of the ocean and the smell of French toast.

"My favorite," he says shyly running his hand over his head. She's wearing an old t-shirt and her tousled hair is tucked behind her ears; to him, she's never been more beautiful."

"Really? Cause, I wasn't sure…I mean, I was going to go for just bread and water but…" He nudged her playfully. _Playfully…that's something I never thought I'd think. _

"I see we have company," said a deep voice from the doorway.

"Hi Lincoln."

"Hey doc."

"Way to go, Uncle Mike," piped up a sleepy LJ, "What's for breakfast?"

"French toast for everyone," she answered, "but, I, uh, think I used up all of your bread and eggs." Michael took the plate from her hands and set it carefully onto the table.

"That's okay, three men in one house and we're buying a loaf every other day or so anyway."

"Right…" Sara looked at the three men seated around the table talking and laughing over breakfast and smiled. It was…_nice_…but she could tell that they were putting on a show for her benefit; the noise seemed to contrast with an established boundary of silence, a boundary not easily broken after years of solitude. _And now? _she thought _What happens now?_

* * *

After breakfast everyone seemed to go their separate ways. Lincoln was out on the boat, LJ to a tutor they'd somehow managed find, and she and Michael took their time walking through Baja. Just as he had in prison, Michael seemed to know the place like the back of his hand, he was forever pulling her down dark alleyways into quaint little stores and restaurants. _It's like he knows everyone,_ she thought as Michael embraced an old woman and her sister.

"There's just one more place…Here we are." He grabbed her hand and took her inside.

As he led her through the shop, his hands running along the sleek lines and designs with all the tenderness of a master craftsman, his voice cracked with excitement as he described this technique and that piece of wood. There was a passion in his voice she never heard before, never had the opportunity to hear and his face was more than alive.

"Lincoln," he explained, "loves the open water. He takes people out for hours and comes back ready to go again. Me, I…I love this. No feeling in the world like making something out of nothing." Her eyes swept over the intricate wooden villages and she nodded.

"I can understand that."

"I know you can." His face was serious again, his eyes dark and penetrating. She looked back at the designs and noticed a large blanket covering two large, extremely lumpy objects.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Just a work in progress."

"Can I see it?"

"It's not finished or anything, but…sure., if you want to." He stood back as she carefully lifted the covering. Underneath there were two very different buildings; one, the prison, was square and solid, just as she remembered it, the other, a house, was somewhat rounder and more comforting.

"What's this?" she asked reverently, her fingers barely grazing the delicate wooden structure. It was exquisite, romantic even, with large windows and rounded arches. She looked through the windows and could see painted walls and miniature furniture.

"My dream house," he answered quietly.

"Michael, it's beautiful!"

"I'm glad you like it," he whispered. _So am I. _


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost six o'clock by the time they made it to the shore and by then most of the teenage beach crowd had drifted back to their hotel rooms to prepare for the night's debauchery. The ones that were left were older people, married couples and sweethearts who strolled down the golden beach hand in hand.

"Wanna go for a swim?" Michael asked as they settled their stuff on the sand.

"Aren't there sharks?" she asked, kicking herself mentally for sounding like a seven year old. He grinned.

"None that I've seen." He lifted his shirt over his head and his tattoo was almost gloomy in the dimming light. She reached forward to touch it and he flinched.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It's not your fault," he shrugged, "I just, I….I hate it."

"Michael…" He looked up to the sky with a sadness and anger that broke her heart.

"I knew what I was doing when I was doing it, but now…I just wish it would wash away," Michael looked down, "I just want to be normal again." She wrapped her arms around him and put her chin on his chest.

"Normal is overrated."

"How can you say that?" Sara pressed her lips against his gently.

"Trust me, I can."


End file.
